


Can We Start Over Again?

by shannonymous



Series: New Again [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholic Tony Stark, Anal Sex, Angst, Bucky Barnes Angst, Cuckolding, Dysphoria, Explicit Consent, FTM, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Protective Steve Rogers, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Tony Stark, Voyeurism, unintentional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4133787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannonymous/pseuds/shannonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The swell of Tony’s eye is the color of a rotting aubergine, a mottled pink-and-purple mess speckled black with the ugly pattern of plated metal fingers curled in a fist.</p><p>(or, what made Tony and Bucky realize they needed Steve Rogers).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The swell of Tony’s eye is the color of a rotting aubergine, a mottled pink-and-purple mess speckled black with the ugly pattern of plated metal fingers curled in a fist. 

It turns the asset’s stomach to see it, feels the world rock uneasily around him as if he were about to lose footing and sink below the waves of grief that just won’t stop. The weight of that guilt is thick as he drowns in it, crests of unbearable swells rising in the place between his throat and lungs.

The asset sunk the pages where he had scrawled, sloppy but genuine, the things he never wanted to forget. Yet now, _now_ , he cannot have those words mock and taunt him of how it once was; they weigh him down in his grief like stones in his pockets and chains tight around his ankles.

He doesn’t want his time with Tony to linger with a sense of _then-and-now_ , _before-and-after_. The time when he could look Tony in the eyes as equals is no longer quantifiable by time; it hasn’t been months or weeks, but instead, never happened. He has nothing to compare, ( _then, he wasn’t afraid of you; but now?_ ) and would never regret the pages, so many wasted sheets scrawled with selfless adoration, lying scattered and waterlogged below him on the ocean floor as he tries to stay afloat.

But now Tony’s smile has become something unfamiliar when the asset chances to see it pasted on the front page again _._ Photographs could never catch that shine of genius or excitement to which the asset was once accustomed, and so he forgot that light.

If it weren’t for the man’s face plastered all around the city (the news, the papers, the gossip rags), the asset wouldn’t remember the shade of whiskey-colored eyes or the curve of that whiskey-scented mouth.  

He ghosts through days keeping his distance, making sure not to linger with skin-to-skin contact, and he never-- _never_ touches _him_ with the hand crafted from cold, cold metal. Those lost moments where Bucky Barnes is the crouching asset, shoulders squared against the apex of the wall, are moments that never happen around _him_. He had always been so _careful_.

He should have known, and that’s what eats at him more than anything. Foolishly consumed with how dangerous he is while awake, Bucky never considered how dangerous he could be in his sleep—only ever considered closing his eyes to be a vulnerability, an opportunity for daring predators (one he had taken many times in the dark of night with soft footsteps and silent knives).

The details of the dream are vague, hazy. Tony had said (voice strained, trying not to cry out from where he sat on the floor) that Bucky had been trashing, fighting someone only he could see; he’d been _screaming,_ because he had been saved from ever sitting in that chair again but there it was, but there he was, strapped to it _no god please no_ — the weight across his legs and chest—

“Bucky?”

He startles, turning to look where Steve stands close, but not too close— he must be slipping, if he’s letting people sneak up on him.

“Sorry,” the man says as he takes an open seat, “I thought you woulda heard me coming.”

Steve was the first to notice the tension between his teammates, because he is not only observant with a heart of gold, but his heart has been doing some watching of its own. Tony and Bucky’s relationship is strangely private, considering half of it is a flashy billionaire who likes to flaunt his money and what it can buy him; yet, he is still one half of a whole. Bucky sticks to the shadows and he likes it there.

There was a time when Steve would have followed Bucky to the end without question; when that was gone, there was Tony.  He learned that man, tried to figure out the insides of that metal-clad heart. And then there was _both_ , and he’d felt like a rope between them, tugging either which way (spent so many nights, hurt, and he’d never felt like such a _slut),_ only to find there was no rope at all.  

Now he watches them both, keeping his distance as they keep theirs and he, selfishly, decides to help.

“Let’s talk,” Steve offers a reassuring smile. “What’s going on with you?”

Bucky almost considers telling him, because how could he fix this on his own-- broken, and half-present? And if he could, does fitting two broken pieces together (hoping against hope that they stick) ever work? The man doesn’t look up from the countertop, the muscle of his jaw jumping when he grinds his teeth too hard for a moment, “Nothin’.”

“Buck, c’mon. You’re acting strange, sleeping during the day and avoiding everyone. You’re not yourself,” Steve tries to keep his voice level and hide his frustration at being lied to, deflected. The other sighs as his resolve breaks. 

"This isn't me," He settles to say, dropping a hand to motion at himself, clenches the metal fingers tighter.

Steve half-smiles, placing a hand between his friend’s shoulder blades; he can feel the exact place where Bucky Barnes stops and the Winter Soldier starts: “This ain’t me either, Buck, I.. look at us. You’re the only one that knew me before-“ _choke on the words and swallow them_ “…before. And sometimes, I still can’t believe this is who I am. But we can’t change back to who we were, we’ll never just be _us_ again.”

“You filled out,” is the reply. “You weren’t…”

“Brainwashed?” Steve tries. “Mutilated against your will? Used? You can’t let--”

“Taken apart,” Bucky interjects, quiet, speaking as if he hadn’t meant for the words to slip out. He glances at Steve, who is thankfully speechless for a few moments. It gives Bucky some time to collect his thoughts and ground himself.

He thinks of an anchor, but the ocean swells up again, reminding him that he doesn’t have to sink below the waves in order to _drown_.

“Talk to Tony,” Steve predictably says. “Nothing is gonna get fixed if you don’t talk to him.”

Bucky, predictably, walks away.

 

On a good day, he knows he’s wrong, all wrong; a well-oiled machine with fucked up, criss-crossing wires that touch and spark and ignite, and burn out the whole damn circuit. And his bad days are getting worse.

There are moments when the asset doesn’t quite recognize the world he’d come to accept as his _now;_ trapped within the smooth glass cage of Stark Tower with the unyielding steel bars— too much like that room with the _chair_ he couldn’t- just can’t—

He always wakes in a corner, clutching the blade of a knife so tightly it would cut to the bones under the skin of his palm if he were still made of flesh-and-blood-and-bone. With the frame of his skull aching, pain radiating from his clenched teeth as if his jaws miss the rubber guard that had been shoved into his mouth for years, he finds his way to the bedroom. Places the knife back under his pillow. Stares at every part of himself except for the piece that is _very much not him_ but seems, instead, like the pet you settle for when resigning your life to spinsterhood, because at least you won’t be _alone_.

But _he_ thought otherwise, inviting the asset into his home, his love, _their_ bed. And he protested, for his own sake more than _his_ , because he knew his lack of limits, knew how it haunted him.

When it finally happened, he should have been relieved for the physical proof of his fears. And yet, no matter how the asset lacked trust in himself, this was something that he hadn’t expected. He’s wrong, heavy in all the places that it counts, and now he doesn’t have the line that kept him afloat.

And now he finds himself mapping only the hollow of Tony’s collarbone, because he can't look at what he did; he has become an expert in the topography of the other man’s body while he forgets the sharp cut of a cheekbone ( _because that’s too close,_ looking _is almost like pressing on the swell and hearing a sharp cry of pain, almost like waking up panicked and disoriented to see what he had done--_ ).

If he could bring himself to watch Tony as he used to, studying and filing and making notes—if he didn’t have to fight the endless ocean each time the man entered the room—maybe he would have noticed that Tony hasn’t been looking at him either.


	2. Chapter 2

Sleep does not come easy for either of the two, but they manage when the other's there. The comfort of Tony's weight at his back soothes Bucky's sharp, jumping nerves on the worst nights. It's what he thinks of while crouched in the shadows, out on missions for another agency looking to control him. He had fallen into bed with bodily satisfaction, gear still strapped to his thigh. 

Sleeping quite deeply beside him, Tony is laid out with his face buried beneath the pillow in the crook of his arm. There's the faint hint of liquor from his side of the bed, and Bucky lets it lull him stupid slow as he unbuckles his gear. Staring at the ceiling, fingers moving absently, he debates waking the other-- but there's the tell-tale signs of endless hours in the grease stains under the man's nails and the half-finished drink on the nightstand. 

The scent of Tony and His Lab almost feels like home, and for a moment Bucky has to fight the urge to slide his hand into that unruly hair and rouse the man from sleep. It's the familiarity of breathing him in, counting the breaths  _in and out, in and out_. He isn't sure he could lose this, haunted by ghosts of a future lost and a past he never lived. And in this soft dedication, his silent resolution, Bucky drifts. 

Everything that seems so close is threatened by the things he keeps distant (in the back of his mind, weighs the flood of red). What he touches is tainted by the stain of blood and he can never truly wash his hands of it. It flows freely over the palms of his hands, off the back of chairs and down the spattered walls-- he can do this, just one more. Waking meant he could look forward to cold sleep again. 

He would never be able to keep this. They will take it, strip him of everything Bucky Barnes and fill up the empty spaces with the asset.

Wouldn't that be better? Isn't this where he belongs, strapped to that chair and waiting for sleep? The ocean swells, pulling him under. And the pain, _god the pain_ that clears his mind and takes away what really hurts, _the flash of blue eyes before he slits a throat, Buck, no please_ \--

And then he's strapped in again, but he doesn't want to lose it this time, he wants to carry the weight of guilt; can't take the restraint keeping him still and even if he fights (he always fights), they will _burn him out_ \--

Tony’s surprised shout of pain as he toppled off the bed was what jolted him awake. And what a thing to wake up to: Tony Stark, small genius with a huge ego, slumped on the floor with a hand hovering over his eye ( _not touching, it hurts too much to touch_ ) and breathing steady, but too deep, ( _almost-sobs, like half-gasps before a_ _breakdown_ ) in attempts to stay calm.

“Stark?” The asset says out of habit, voice thick with sleep, his mouth feeling slow and sticky even though his heart is pounding against the cage beneath his chest, fluttering wildly.

“Tony?” He prompts when the other doesn’t respond. He immediately regrets this, though, because when Tony looks up to meet his gaze, his right eye is already swelling and colored an angry red that will quickly deepen to a sickening shade of purple and black and _will haunt you_.

“I think it’s broken,” Tony says. “Fuck, it hurts,” he tries to laugh it off, but it comes out a wounded sound that Bucky feels sick to hear, his own vision swimming briefly before untangling himself from the sheets.

When Bucky reaches for the other man, to help him to his feet and get him to a fucking hospital, Tony flinches back, instinctive and uncertain. He laughs that off too, waving dismissively at his own _“I’m being ridiculous,_ ” but it had happened, and both of them think of that moment often.

Often enough to be sick over it; often enough for Tony to take prescribed painkillers with a tumbler of whiskey; often enough that Bucky is almost, very, and always afraid to touch.

 

They sleep in separate rooms now, for one takes the couch if the other is in bed, though that rarely happens with two people who never sleep (two people who only laid in bed to be close). Tony curls up where they used to tangle up together where they met in the middle, fetal and self-aware while the asset carries out new missions. When Tony can’t sleep and finds himself losing hours working on making it better, faster, smarter, Bucky tosses and turns in an empty bed.

They both dream of their pasts and of each other, the two meshing seamlessly and deepening the divide between them. They can’t look at each other during the day but neither knows why, both victims and criminals of crimes that never really happened.

Tony dreams of a metal hand holding his head underwater and a quiet desperation that the asset will finally take over when this is done, that he will never remember doing this and _please no god this isn’t you baby bucky please god n-_

 “Stark,” Steve says as he sits at the breakfast bar. “I think we should talk.”

Tony reacts slowly, hands curling tight around his mug. Exhaustion weighs heavy on his face as he carelessly rolls a shoulder.

“I couldn’t have pissed you off in the twenty minutes I’ve been here.”

“This isn’t about me,” comes the reply, and Tony fights rolling his eyes.

“Never is, is it, Cap?” Tony flashes that easy smile as he sets a cup of coffee in front of his teammate. There’s a wry smile playing at Steve’s lips that would be seen as inappropriate, and so he pulls his mouth tight and ducks his head. Tony is never easy to talk to, so there’s no reason to beat around the bush.

“What’s goin’ on between you and Bucky?”

Tony shrugs.

“I’m the tech guy, guy’s almost half-tech. You jealous, capsicle? We all grew up reading the stories about Captain America and his swell sidekick Bucky Barnes. Don’t want to step on any toes.”

Steve appreciates the effort it takes for Tony not to gloat. So he breathes deep and forces a half-smile, to which the other man reacts with barely-hidden suspicion.

“What?” Tony asks, impatient, and Steve slides forward to the edge of his seat. There’s no point in stalling.

His head tilts as he looks up at this man who builds such high walls, asking, “You know he won’t hurt you again, right?”

Tony recoils.

“What?” He laughs that sad, half-dead thing he lets out when he’s blindsided. “Do you—this isn’t his fault. This isn’t Bucky’s fault. The way he is now, the way he’s been acting. It’s because of me. Of this,” he motions at his face. “And how am I supposed to feel about that, Steve, tell me. Cause I know it isn’t ‘good’.”

Steve regards him with quiet consideration before offering, “You can’t blame yourself either.”

“I don’t,” Tony says, unconvinced. “I don’t,” he insists.

There is no response to that, and so the two men sit there in the thick tension— one at a loss and the other searching.

“He’s my best friend,” sighs Steve as he finally admits defeat. “I don’t know how to help him.”

For a moment, Tony is struck with how young the other man is, how much life he missed out on to be Captain America. Personal relationships, those beyond the influences of magical teamwork, are damn near non-existent for him. He never had a chance.

“Christ, you’re just a kid,” Tony considers under his breath, but the other visibly stiffens.

“Look, Stark,” Steve starts, but immediately finds there are no words on the tip of his tongue. He goes blank, turning his head away. Maybe he is just a kid with a hurt friend. “Please just help him, all right?”

Tony heaves a sigh and says, resigned, “I can’t help someone who won’t help themselves, _all right_? He’s got parts of him that he can’t accept, and I can’t _make him_ , Steve. It isn’t that simple.”

“If there’s anyone who can get it done, it’s you,” Steve says, and there’s something akin to open admiration written on his face. It only deepens Tony’s guilt, because he isn’t just failing Bucky Barnes.

“Maybe this isn’t something I can fix,” Tony responds quietly to himself and it sounds almost like a lament as he pours a shot into his coffee before heading downstairs to take something apart just to put it back together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll put the last two up tomorrow, yeah?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chap, yes

When Bucky falls asleep, he goes in stages of falling. It isn’t quite like falling, but he’s never had a better term for the feeling of disorientation and half-consciousness. He doesn’t trust himself to slip, and always tries to hold on.

He often thinks of someone else’s past; of Steve, the city, of the things that happened because he was the one to put a bullet between a target’s eyes. Of Bucky Barnes, the soldier they killed to make room for the weapon.

It comes familiar and heavy each time as he creeps through the dark, his target asleep (and vulnerable, something the asset scoffs at: what a waste of time) on the bed. This is something he’s done before, quietly straddling the still figure, but instead of slitting a sleeping throat, he presses the blade between ribs and to feel the skin part like butter. He puts his body weight against the blade, slow and sure and deep.

This isn’t efficient, so what is it for? His gaze turns curious, flicking up to watch the life leave his mission’s eyes, but the once dark and nameless face isn’t his target, it’s him, God, it’s Tony and _what have I done_ and _please no god baby bucky please god no-_

 This is the first time he wakes in a cold sweat with the knife clutched in hand and the sight of blood on the blade; it is fresh and taunting, and has the world slanting out of focus. He lets go like it’s burned him—but it hasn’t, only cut through the skin of his flesh-and-blood hand. Deep enough for stitches. Shallow enough to have saved his fingers. He berates himself on the way to the bathroom, beelining for the nearest First-Aid kid.

  _No wonder they can’t leave you alone._

He’d rather stitch it up before anyone else sees it and drags him to someone in medical. _To the hospital,_ his mind corrects. The floor is dark, but he knows that doesn’t mean “empty,” so he slips into the bathroom without a sound and shuts the door behind him.

 He’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub with dental floss threaded through a sewing needle when Tony walks in, stopping short. Bucky, placid and indifferent, continues guiding the needle through the split in the palm of his hand.

The man pauses before asking, “What are you-- is that blood?”

“Ayuh,” Bucky replies half-heartedly. There’s a beat, almost like Tony is weighing his next words, unsure if he should speak or if he has the right to anymore.

"You shouldn’t be doing that,” he says, coming closer. “Is that floss? There’s a perfectly good—I can get the—“ He tries in different turns but he knows better. “You can’t give yourself stitches, James, they’ll get infected.”

“It won’t,” is the reply, but Bucky’s hand has stilled.

 All it takes is the hesitation in Tony’s half-step to have Bucky recoiling.

They both fight with this.

Tony mutters, “I’ll get Steve.”

And he leaves. But Steve, always Steve, enters the bathroom without a sound, sitting next to his friend on the edge of the tub. He takes Bucky’s hand and picks up the forgotten needle.

“It’ll heal,” Bucky protests, reveling in the warmth of touch. “You don’t have to…”

Steve smiles something half-hearted and not all that amused: “I know. I know that I don’t. But… let me do this for you, Buck.”

So the asset stills and lets Bucky’s best friend from a past life stitch him up. He relaxes, lets his hand weigh heavy in Steve’s palm. He can do this with Steve, knows that the man is more than an outfit and an indestructible shield. He knows Steve can heal and take damage; he’s solid and strong and secure without the costume. Unlike Tony, who is more than Iron Man, but still, just a man underneath.

There’s a hitch in his breathing, barely noticeable, but Steve is barely human.

“It’s all right,” Steve’s voice is a murmur, and his hands are a comforting weight.

Bucky likes the pull of the tight floss as he clenches his fingers when Steve leans over to close the distance between them. Kissing Steve Rogers is like a salve that covers a burn but doesn’t quite heal it. He can feel the heat, but he thinks of the person under Captain America’s mask, knows him to be unbreakable.

 _Unlike Tony_.

 The guilt swells again but something loosens it; Steve presses against the wound on his hand, and his kisses become insistent as he reaches for Bucky’s other wrist. He pulls the asset to him, his body heat bleeding into and filling up the spaces between them. It feels familiar, giving in to him so easily.

“I’ve got you,” Steve coaxes, his breath hot and mouth pressed close. 

This is what hushes the roar of the waves and they start to dissipate, silent and still beneath his tired, fluttering heart. He doesn’t pull away from Steve’s fingers wrapped around the metal plates; he would have to try hurting the other man for injury to happen, doesn’t think he could hurt Steve on accident ( _unlike Tony_ ). The grief starts to evaporate, hissing and almost resistant to Steve’s heat.

But Steve’s hand feels cool when he presses it against the heat of the asset’s cock, and the rush of guilt comes back in full force. He isn’t who Steve wants, only answers to Barnes because his face matches the name.

The heat is searing and the regret surges. It’s almost becoming too much, the steam filling his chest, escaping in hot breaths, and Bucky is panting against the sharp curve of throat and collarbone.

His bed feels foreign to him with this other body pressed to his, unlike Stark in every respect except for the reverent devotion Steve so lovingly offers.

But the other’s voice is pitched low when he asks, “Do you want this?” and for a moment, Bucky wants to pull away. He wants to drown in his guilt, because he’s never deserved it so totally before. He had hurt so many people as the Soldier, and even now, after they’ve made part of him Bucky Barnes again.

“I hurt him,” Bucky says, and his words break, his jaw is tense. “I can’t hurt him again.”

Steve glances at the other side of the bed that hasn’t been slept in for weeks.

“You’re hurting each other. I want to help, Buck, let me help you,” he murmurs softly. His hands, steady in their place on the other’s hips, tighten a fraction but otherwise do not move. “Will you let me?”

He can see Bucky weighing what he’s got against what he’s lost when the man nods his consent and lets his hands wander. Smooth metal fingers tangle in his blond hair and he follows (he would follow him _anywhere_ ) the pressure guiding him to the kiss. It’s open-mouthed and messy, desperate in all the ways he felt before finding him, finding this again.  

“I got you,” Steve murmurs, hands slipping under the fabric of Bucky’s tee, ducking down to mouth at the scars that litter his skin. His teeth glide over the ridges of scar tissue, laving his tongue over the red marks he leaves behind. When he pulls back to tug the shirt off, he catches sight of Bucky’s injured hand curled in a tight fist.

He mutters a terse, “Buck, stop,” before wrapping his hand around the other’s wrist. His fingers press at the unyielding tendons and they feel like tight strings ready to snap.

“I want it to hurt,” the man says and Steve’s stomach bottoms out.

“Too bad,” Steve says, and his other hand smoothes back the strands of hair that have escaped the elastic tie before dipping down to press his lips against Bucky’s forehead. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Not tonight, if that’s what you really want. Maybe some other time, but right now, I’m gonna take care of you.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

 “That’s why I’m showin’ you that you do, yeah?” He rocks his hips against Bucky’s, the fabric between them loud with friction. He bends to find that solace in the loss of space between them, skin-to-skin and pressed close.

Cries are muffled by bitten shoulders, filing up the dips where teeth leave marks. But then they overflow, spilling out past parted lips and crawling over skin, escaping. They sound sinful, and they deserved to be kept secret.

It would be a lie to say that they didn’t hear the door open.

The asset half-expects Captain America to pull away, shamed and blushing like the good ol’ boy they expect him to be; yet this is Steve, stubborn and defiant (but with Captain America’s body to back him up, he no longer needs Bucky Barnes to save him in back alleys if Bucky Barnes was still alive) and still pressing the hot line of his erection into Bucky’s thigh.

“Well,” Tony’s dry voice says from the doorway, “God bless America.”


	4. Chapter 4

The ice cubes clink in his tumbler of bourbon as he takes a sip and closes the door behind him.

“I can honestly say I didn’t expect this, but that was stupid of me, wasn’t it?” Tony’s smile screws up lopsided, eyes somber, and he looks genuinely disappointed in himself. Bucky feels the ocean of guilt swell again, the weight of Steve’s body against his, Tony’s unwavering glances.

 “Come here Tony,” Steve invites without looking and Bucky tenses beneath him. He can’t be close to that man, can’t touch him, because what’s one more neck to snap?

There’s an ounce of regret in Tony’s words, much like the heavy liquor in his glass as he says, “I don’t really do,” his hand waves at them, “that.”

This is what pulls Steve away as he straightens to meet Tony’s eyes, knees still planted on either side of Bucky’s own. His smile is strange, head cocking to the side in skeptical confusion and there’s no hesitation in his voice when he plainly states, “You? You’re the biggest whore in the Avengers.”

The man beneath him startles, features drawn.

 “Hey, don’t call ‘im that,” he gruffs out in a low warning, putting distance between them. Bucky might be fucked up, but _how dare he_? Weight on his elbows, he inches his way up the bed and squares his shoulders to the headboard with Steve still straddling his legs. He twists to free them.

“Ah.” Tony shakes his head with a wry smile, finger wagging in their direction. The gesture itself drips with bitterness. He doesn’t look at them, still tangled there on the bed. “But not _with_ the Avengers, capsicle. And for the record, I haven’t been sleeping around on him, either.”

Bucky ignores the cheap shot, watching Tony pace the room like a wounded animal; he should be lashing out and snarling, but the man is worn thin and harrowed with defeat. He looks ready to give in, lie down.

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but they do; Steve’s face drops, and he looks properly chastened as he rocks back to sit at the foot of the bed.  “I didn’t know you haven’t…” His face flushes with not embarrassment, but shame. He looks as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands as he presses his palms together a little helplessly. “Together.”

 “Steve,” Tony interrupts. For once, he pauses, weighing his words as he makes his way to the bed. There are things he can't give this man, the starved, fucked up thing that wears Bucky's face. He doesn't want to let it go, but he's the worst kind of selfish. “I don’t touch him. How am I going to be upset that he’s got someone who will? I… want what makes him happy, and if that’s you—“

Bucky catches Tony’s wrist, stitches pulling hard. “It’s both. I want both of you. Just don’t…” he swallows the sour taste in his mouth. “Don’t leave me alone again.”

“ _Me_?” Tony scoffs incredulously, yanking his hand back,  “I wasn’t the one skulking about to the point where Spangles here thought he’d jump into our relationship, if we can even call it that anymore, cause I’m sure you aren’t supposed to clear a room once your boyfriend comes in—“

Bucky sits up, outraged. “Every time I get close to you, you flinch!”

“I can’t _help it_!”

“Because you’re afraid of me,” and the words are venomous with accusation.

“Fellas,” Steve cuts in, his authoritative tone resonating strangely out of uniform. “This isn’t the way.”

Tony snaps to him, eyebrows raised high. “Really? You? You’re the one that wanted us to talk, so here we are, Cap, _talking_ -“

“You’re fighting—“

“I’m not taking advice from the guy who thought the best course of action was getting him to cheat on me,” Tony snaps in ugly retaliation, and his anger isn’t soothed by Steve’s immediate contrition that’s written so clearly on his face. It is, however, quickly abated when he sees the same expression pulling Bucky's features into a frown.

Setting his glass on the nightstand, Tony sits in the place where the other two had just been wrapped up in one another. He folds his hands in his lap with quiet resignation and huffs a mirthless laugh. Bucky’s stomach goes tight at the familiarity of it.

 “We’re both pretty fucked up.”

 “Tony, stop. That’s not it, and you know it,” Steve cuts in. “I was the one who screwed up this time, and I’m sorry—“

“No, you were right, this is what he needs,” Tony says, fingers slipping into Bucky’s hair with his short fingernails gently scritch-scratching at the man’s scalp. “I can’t give it to him. Not yet,” he murmurs under his breath and he turns his gaze to Steve, “but you can.”

The blond shakes his head, hands already rising in quiet placation as he says, “I can’t do this. I thought it was different, I didn’t—“

“Steve, c’mon, you’re acting like I didn’t just catch you dry-humping in my bed—“

“—You don’t understand—“

Frustrated, Tony stands. “Don’t sit there and lie to my face, Rogers,” he hisses, seething. “I deserve better than that. You really think I couldn’t see it? The way you looked at him, the way you _still_ look at him? You didn’t dedicate the last few years to saving him because of your hero complex, I can tell you that. Don’t sit there and _lie_ and say you don’t love him.”

Steve’s eyes are red with hurt, but his jaw is tight with the effort to suppress his disappointment, his anger that draws him in. “When I didn’t have him, you were there. You were the one…” he trails off, feeling sick. “I thought he was dead, Tony. And then he wasn’t. You can’t blame me for that. ” He feels foolish to have hoped that everything would be the same. As if he hadn’t been so different himself.

 His eyes flick to Bucky’s and he tries not to sound bitter. “I knew you wouldn’t be him, I just— I didn’t realize how much, but I had to help you.” It settles low in his stomach to know the other wears a face he once loved, one he fell for again like an idiot. “You’re not him, so I let you choose Tony. I know why you did it. I would have too,” he admits with a sense of finality.

There's a beat of silence between the three of them. 

“Steve, you’re exhausting,” Tony finally says as he leans in to kiss away that miserable look. “It’s like watching a puppy get scolded. If you wanted in, you could have said something.”

The blond is hazy when he stutters out, “Wait, what?” He’s staring at that mouth that says all sorts of wicked things, and can do worse. “What?”

“Babe,” Tony ignores Steve, turning look at the other still laid out on the bed. “How about it?”

Bucky looks remiss glancing between the two of them. “Don’t I get a say in this?” he asks, gaze jumping from one to the other. Steve nods, but Tony rolls his eyes. Both of them seem tense, almost afraid to hear the words, because surely, he’ll tell them both to go to hell.

He huffs a quick, “I think you’re both morons,” and offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile. Thank god the other brunette can read him, because this would be too much to give up so quickly. Tony startles at that before laughing, dipping down cover Bucky’s mouth with his own.

“Good,” he says against the other’s mouth. Drawing back, he spreads his hands over Bucky’s abdomen and glances back at the blond still seated too far away, wearing the blank mask of reproach. “That’s what I like to hear. Steve? If you’d resume fucking my boyfriend.”

Steve blanches.

“ _What_?”

“Finish what you started, Cap,” Tony quips, palming Bucky through his jeans. His bitterness bleeds away, replaced with the hot surge of lust. Steve’s marks still litter the asset’s skin, and Tony thinks he looks absolutely lovely like that. “A good leader follows through, don’t you think?”

Steve doesn’t move, looking, for all his bulk and strength, like the slightest move would shatter him. He doesn’t flinch away when Tony reaches for him and metal fingers find his wrist.

“We all fuck up, Stevie,” Bucky coaxes the man closer, letting his legs fall open for him to settle between. “We make mistakes. If we hated you for yours, what would that make us, huh?”

Tony’s hand catches the sharp angle of Steve’s jaw and they meet open-mouthed, Steve’s lips slack with surprise. He makes a soft noise that the other greedily swallows.

“It’d make us hypocrites,” answers the brunette with a grin and that’s when the wave breaks; Steve surges forward, fitting his hand at the nape of Tony’s neck as he draws him into a rough kiss. He leans into it, anchored by the metal grip on his arm and the sharp sting of Tony’s teeth.  

When the clothes are piled up on the floor, carelessly thrown, Tony’s left fully-dressed in his Deep Purple tee and work pants. Steve‘s arousal is colored red, the flush spreading over his chest. Bucky’s touch-starved between them, mouthing at Tony’s throat with his thighs hooked over Steve's shoulders.

He’s pleasantly distracted with three of Tony’s fingers inside of him, and from this angle, Steve looks positively sinful with his mouth full.

“Good?” Tony mutters and he doesn’t look away from the sight between Bucky’s legs.

The man nods his answer, words caught in his throat when the mouth on his cock sucks greedily and takes him deeper. Tony pulls his wet fingers out to stroke over the loose muscle, spreading the slick and pressing to test the give. He sinks them in again, twisting upwards, watching Bucky’s body stutter in response.

Steve pulls off, his lips raw and wet, breath coming in eager pants. He gathers the asset to him, and lifts his weight to balance Bucky against his thighs as he ruts his cock into the slick crease where he fits so well. The man watches him with lidded eyes and a half-smile, stitched hand held still in Tony’s loose grip.

“Look at that,” Bucky faintly hears Tony’s words, gritted out against his throat where teeth find his pulse.  He watches the other reach into the place where he and Steve meet, oil making the slide wetter, easier.

Steve pumps into the tight circle of Tony’s fingers, gasping at the pressure as the man licks the taste of Bucky from his parted lips—the sounds are fucking _filthy_. Then the head of his cock catches on the rim of Bucky’s hole and he moans out when Tony guides him in to that wet, yielding heat.

“Hot damn,” Bucky exclaims, breathless, and he responds so beautifully as Steve sinks deep. “ _Fuck_ , Stevie, just like that.”

Tony finds that amusing, grinning against Steve’s shoulder as he slips a hand down to palm at the hard line of Bucky’s prick. He does this dirty-slow before moving behind Steve; the touch is just brief enough to make the man groan and drop his head back. Fingertips press at the rim of his hole, working in shallowly against Steve’s cock.

He can’t see Tony, as the bulk of Steve Rogers and Those Shoulders block the view of what is going on behind him. Bucky does, however, hear the choked, “Tony, Christ, _your tongue_ ,” against his throat, punctuated with a sharp jab of Steve’s hips, and he promptly comes, spilling wetly between their bellies with a surprised, punched-out sound.

He half-expects Steve to croon sweetly in his ear and come, fill him up and, _Christ_ , gather him in soft blankets now that he’s taken care of the asset-- now that he’s nursed the Winter Soldier into a post-coital mess rather than post-traumatic.

What he does not expect is teeth sinking into his shoulder, the accompanying growl as Steve fucks into him, drawing out aftershocks and driving Bucky towards the headboard. There are distant hands stroking at the backs of his thighs, but most important is how Steve can wrap himself around Bucky, crowd him in. With arms bearing the weight of him, Steve draws him closer.

“I can’t-“ The asset gasps for air that isn’t heavy with their scent.

Steve is mouthing at his throat, panting as he pulls Bucky’s weight against each thrust—every flex of Steve’s fingers against his shoulder blades, tight and unyielding against the muscles there, each press of the man’s weight against his thighs and the hot slide between them—it’s too much, too heavy. He doesn’t want it to stop, but he can’t—

“Steve,” comes out weak.

“Got you,” Steve murmurs, nosing and licking at the underside of his jaw, nipping at the tight muscle. “I got you.”

Each breath is stuttered, overwhelmed by the slick sounds they make. He feels raw, too full—on the edge of satisfied and hungry and worn. Steve consumes him like this, swallows him up and keeps him close, worships him on his back. There’s a gnashing of teeth at Bucky’s throat and it breaks the swell inside of him, and his prick twitches as he comes dry on Steve’s cock. It’s too much—

“Stop,” he moans, sucking in a sharp breath, “s’too much, I can’t—“

“But you can,” Steve soothes, one of his hands squeezing briefly at his thigh before his fingers curl around Bucky’s cock, spreading in his spend, tacky in the humidity between them.

“You can do it again for me, can’t you? So open, been so good for me, you can give us another, sweetheart. I know you can.” Despite his words, Steve has stopped moving, panting softly with the effort it takes not to _own, claim_. His hand finds its place on Bucky’s thigh, kneading gently at the tight muscle there.

Tony’s at his side now, face flushed but enraptured, and Bucky can’t help but reach for him, tangling his fingers in mussed brown hair. His head is full of static, pleasant and distracting. He wants to let it swallow him, but Steve, Steve does it first, consumes him, and there are Tony’s fingers, testing the spaces between his hips.

“Fuck, you look so good,” Tony murmurs, and his kisses are hot, searing the same way Steve burns him from the inside out. “We should have done this ages ago.”  

“Tony,” Steve warns, hips stuttering. Bucky cracks a grin at that, and when he laughs, fingers tighten on his thigh.  The haze clears enough for him to roll against Steve impatiently.

“C’mon, you sap,” the man taunts with a leer, his tone lazy and doped up on two orgasms, “gonna fuck another one outta me or not?” Steve tries to muffle his groan with bruised skin between his teeth.

“You heard him,” Tony laughs and he slaps Steve’s thigh. “Fill ‘im up.”

The blond bares his teeth against the yielding inner thigh, muscles tense under soft skin. They look good like this, flushed and pressed together. He can’t tear his gaze away from the sight that they make, Tony swallowing the sounds of Bucky’s moans breaking on each thrust he gets. His arm is bruised from the tight grip of metal fingers, unyielding and desperately holding on, but he likes the dull, sweet sting of it; when Bucky damn near breaks the bone as he loses it with his third orgasm, Steve snarls and he fucks his load into the pulsing heat.  

He’s still clinging to the high, rocking into Bucky just to hear the sounds he makes, when Tony rolls onto his back with a grin.

“That was hot,” he says, glancing over to see Steve pull out and drag his fingers through the mess he made. “Okay, fuck, that was hot too. I feel like I should take a picture, maybe start a scrapbook—“

“Take a mental picture,” Steve mutters, feeling stupid-slow as he untangles himself out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom.

“I’m serious,” and Tony means it as he watches the man with a leer. God bless America all right.

Steve shoots him a fond, exasperated look when he comes back and hands Bucky a wet cloth. “You’re insufferable,” he corrects, filling up the empty space behind Tony and pressing close enough to muffle the man’s retort with a kiss. “We’re gonna sleep now,” Steve says, and it doesn’t sound like a question.

When the lights go down, Bucky finds that though his body hums with exhaustion, he can’t settle. Tony, however, with the aid of booze and the haze of lust, drops quickly. Bucky thinks he looks worn, and knows it’s because of him.

“Will you—“ he stumbles over the words. Steve lifts his head to gaze into the dark, face lit by the dim light. “Would you hold him?”

The other, all at once, looks miserably low, haunted again and the asset draws into himself, expecting to be reprimanded. At this point, he’d deserve it. After the first few weeks, he accepted that he wouldn’t be wiped and that he could keep his memories now; but discipline, he expected.

He tries, “I’m sorry—“but that only darkens Steve’s face, deepens the lines. He looks older. Bucky’s fingers, metal and flesh, open and close absently, helpless.

Steve considers him for a long time. Tony sleeps heavy between them.

“You don’t have to apologize anymore,” he finally says. “And you don’t have to be afraid. Here,” Steve reaches for Bucky’s metal wrist and the asset jerks away out of instinct. He can’t taint this too, not when it’s so new and everything’s fresh and mended and for once, could he please—

Steve’s lips thin: “Stop that,” and he reaches again, maneuvering Bucky to wrap around Tony, chest to back. He leans back to admire his work, savoring the sight of two brunettes and the shine of metal across Tony’s chest in the dim lighting, realizing he could wake up to this every morning if he plays his cards right.

The asset catches him watching and tightens his hold—just a fraction, for his caution is still tinged with the regret coloring his words: “I’m not him.”

“I know you’re not,” Steve says, unsurprised.

He settles into bed comfortably, slipping a hand beneath Bucky’s to rest against Tony’s skin.

“I’m not who you want.”

Steve hums.

“I’ll ruin this.”

Steve hums again, a little absent: “S’ok, Buck. M’here. Nothing’s gonna happen. I got you.”

_Will you have me when my fingers are locked around Tony’s throat, when I crush his windpipe?_

“I got you both,” Steve mutters, because Bucky’s thinking as loud as he always has.

Some habits are hard to break with discipline, and they’re easier to erase with electrical currents. Maybe not everything that gets broken needs to be fixed. He feels the shift of Steve’s hand, the barrier between his metal hand and the fragile bones of Tony’s chest. For moment, he thinks that the swell of guilt is calm, like the tide has gone out and the ocean is finally still and silent.

He breathes easy and goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuckin finally, right
> 
> now tell me how awful i am


End file.
